


Duende

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/F, carla is a gay baby and dies every time she sees lucrezia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: When she is called into her lady's presence, Carla finds herself less prepared than she anticipates.Written as a drabble for the prompt "unsual power to attract or charm".





	

When she is told that she must be _prepared_ to meet Lady Lucrezia, Carla scoffs: _what is she, if not prepared?_

Her life has been nothing _but_ preparation. She was born a _daughter_  to the Santonia family; she was born knowing that she would have to work twice as hard to garner half as much respect as her father — and she is proud to say that she _has_. A quick inspection of her hands alone will tell a dozen stories of duels that she has fought: callouses like medals of honour run from her palms to her fingertips, and her still-beating heart is a testament to her victories.

Carla Alvarez Santonia has turned in more bandits and thieves than she can count. She has brought seasoned soldiers to their knees in spars. She has fought and trained until her bones ache and she can taste nothing but iron in her mouth — and hell will freeze over before she will abide by the implication that she is in any way _unprepared_. She is _more_  than ready to serve Lucrezia de Dormentaire: there is no threat in the world that she cannot defend against.

Except, perhaps, the woman herself.

 

When she is told she must be prepared to meet Lady Lucrezia, Carla scoffs, because she assumes that this is meant to undermine her abilities. It is only when she first finds herself standing in front of her that she understands: it was _not_ meant to undermine her abilities, it was meant to warn her of _Lucrezia’s_.

Carla learned as a child how to establish dominance through posture. It was a survival skill, the first weapon of a girl who wished for respect in this world — but when she sees Lucrezia all of her carefully constructed body language is forgotten. She tells herself _stand up straight_  and yet when she’s at her feet she lowers herself to one knee, she tells herself _chin up, shoulders back_ , but she bows her head. She tells herself _look them in the eye, show them that you feel nothing_ , but one glimpse of rosy skin and golden hair tells her that this woman is the _sun_ and that it would be impossible to demonstrate that she feels nothing while her brilliance burns her.

“You must be Carla,” Her voice is softer than Carla had imagined it would be. For all her loyalty to House Dormentaire, she is not ignorant to its misdoings — and yet this  _voice_  does not suggest a capacity for misdoing. If she heard this voice, dulcet and gentle, ringing through a church hall she might think that an angel were speaking to her, but an angel could not touch her, could not lean over to lift her chin. 

For a long moment Carla feels as though she is being studied, as though Lucrezia’s blue eyes are somehow reading every fact she needs to know about her from the features of her face. 

“You certainly are much _prettier_  than my last bodyguard, aren’t you, darling?”

And she _smiles_. 

Carla Alvarez Santonia has never had to fear being conquered by a man, and yet this smile makes her weak. 

 

It is not long before she discovers that this smile does not belong to _her_. 

Lucrezia de Dormentaire has a smile like Helen of Troy, and it should be no surprise that she uses to launch thousands of ships every day. It should be no surprise that she is not the only person who falls in love with Lucrezia a little more every time they see her. It should be no surprise that someone this beautiful is not made to be hers.

It _is_  no surprise — but seeing the bullet before it hits does not make the wound any less painful. 

While she is guarding the door, a man who had shown flagrant disrespect for her position is sharing a dance with the most beautiful person she has ever seen, and she cannot cure the ache. _What must it be like to be pressed so close to Lucrezia?_  Obscenely close — unthinkably close. She makes a mental list of things she would give to take his place: her new uniform, her salary, her status, her _life_. 

 

A sharp scream reminds her that she is not made for dancing. 

She pushes her way through the crowd and resolves the situation in a matter of seconds: the threat, a man with a meagre dagger, thrown to the floor and pinned beneath her heel by his neck. She is not made for dancing — this comes more easily. This does not require _thought_  or _questioning_. _This_ is what she has to offer Lucrezia. 

“I apologise, Milady, I should have recognised him as trouble sooner —” 

She pauses when Lucrezia sets a hand on her forearm; there is nothing intimate about the gesture, yet from her it is somehow more intimate than any gesture Carla has experienced. 

“There’s no need to apologise, my dear.” Her hands look soft, delicate; Carla wonders if she will ever have the chance to touch them without a layer of fabric in between. “You did your duty, after all.”

Lucrezia’s hands look soft, delicate — the kind of hands that are meant for dancing — and Carla thinks about her own hands, calloused, scarred, and concludes that she was not made to hold them.

 

In the evenings she alone has the duty of guarding Lady Lucrezia’s bedroom.

There are other guards — but the task only requires _one_ , and it is preferred that it be a woman. Of these, Carla is the only option.

Though, she is certain that any man would gladly take her place if they _could_. 

If Lucrezia is beautiful in her usual attire — and she _is_ , so much so that most people cannot take their eyes off of her — then there is something ethereal about seeing her with her hair down, nightgown accentuating her figure. Ask Carla before she met Lucrezia whether it was possible to be enchanted, truly _bewitched_ by a person, and she would have rolled her eyes — this is the talk of romantics and poets, not a woman of duty. 

Ask her now and she may _stall_ , thinking of hands too soft to hold and eyes too bright to look into and a smile too wonderful to ever be for her alone. 

“Milady, I —”

“You ought to call me _Lucrezia_  when we’re alone, my sweet.” 

Is it enchantment if she _knows_  she is being enchanted — or is it just wishful thinking? 

“That would be indecent, Milady.”

“Should it _matter_?”

Carla knows that _anyone’s_  heart would race to hear Lucrezia de Dormentaire whisper in their ear. She knows that this thumping in her chest is an effect of charm and grace — not love or affection. She is loyal, not ignorant. 

“My dear Carla, you should know by now that I have nothing against _indecency_  in private places.”

She is loyal, not ignorant — yet it is so easy to convince herself that perhaps she is wrong. It is easy to convince herself that perhaps this beautiful smile _is_  made for her after all when it is pressed to her lips. 

Of all the lessons she has learned working for House Dormentaire, the greatest by far is that she has never been prepared for _this_. 


End file.
